Rake It In
by evilredmenace
Summary: A series of scenes between Roy Mustang and Winry Rockbell. Some are of the more whimsical variety, while others have the requisite amount of angst expected in such a dynamic. How does one act around the man who murdered your parents?
1. Chapter 1

He had caught glimpses of her before. Brief, somewhat rushed studies of her face. Enough to discern that she was female, and remarkably blond. Had it been any other objective circumstance, he was painfully aware of how he would come to view her under his own well-experienced male gaze.

The first time had been that fateful night of the Elrics' failed transmutation of their mother. While the Fullmetal had suffered through the ordeal of having his limbs artificially replaced in a rather barbaric fashion, he had stepped in under the guise of answering their letter in regards to their father.

She had stood there, painfully young and vulnerable, and completely unaware of how wretched his connection to her had been. What was she, all of ten? Eleven? However, the older Rockbell was shrewd. He sensed an underlying inquisition underneath her questions… a searching, intense scrutiny that belied her mild manner and seemingly disconnected from the rest of her concern.

Glancing back at the daughter now, Winry, his mind painfully reminded him. For some reason, perhaps due to some obvious psychological dissonance that he really didn't want to explore, it was much easier to see her as the daughter rather than as Winry. "The daughter" conveyed a certain distance. Certainly far from impersonal, it was a reminder of that connection. When he'd sit at his desk late at night under the pretense of catching up on neglected paperwork, it had become routine to help himself to the decanter of brandy. Glass in hand, the night and his lack of consistent sleep gave the world a bit of a surreal quality. Then, he would allow those thoughts of "the daughter," to creep in.

She was there. Her face grim and struggling with maintaining whatever composure she was attempting. Apparently, her and Sheska had chosen to embark upon their own search for the Elric brothers. This included clinging to some noisy monstrosity that had quite frankly scared the bejesus out of him.

He had hesitated momentarily about restraining them. For a moment. A nod to Havoc had seen them appropriately subdued, but he forced himself to meet her eyes. A quiet moment of intensity. She obviously wasn't used to holding back, but for whatever reason, she did not struggle or verbally protest the treatment. That had made it almost worse.

He knew her face. What he hadn't expected was the thoughtful recognition of her features. For whatever reason, he currently carried a visible and obvious symbol of those two doctors; a daily reminder that did not fade because he did not choose to absolve himself of that delinquency. As a result, he knew the doctors' faces to an almost absurd degree.

Had he been more poetic, or perhaps a little more of an asshole, he would have liked to remark on how she complimented both of her parents seamlessly. But those words would pass through his lips the day Fullmetal towered over him.

Suffice to say, never.

She was saying something behind him. He kept walking, letting it wash over him. He hadn't been especially attentive to the words, but the pent up frustration behind the statement distracted him. Finally, as if no longer beating around the bush, she actually through out a somewhat hurtful connection to him and the parents that he had murdered.

"Tell me, was this the kind of devotion you had when you killed my mom and dad?"

He could sense the bristling of Hawkeye. Her almost feral protection of him would have cheered him immensely had it not been so undeserved. He was suddenly painfully aware of every flaw in his stout metaphorical armor. He couldn't care less about the requisite stares from the men around them.

He was suddenly struck by the gross similarities of these Resembool kids. All had suffered tremendously while in that vulnerable, aching stage of childhood that would forever shape and mold a personality. It was enough to turn any sane person into an unapologetic monster.

At least, when he had chosen to shoot innocents, he had been a full nineteen years of age. The choice of an adult, albeit a young one.

Her parents… The woman who had steeled her face in cold resignation. He could recall that unapologetic realization, even as his hands shook and his face struggled with containing his utter panic.

He hadn't even aimed properly. If he had been anything other than a proper bastard, he would have at least aimed for something immediate and vital.

But no. The first shot had hit the woman in the stomach, which had sent her reeling to the wall. The man had immediately moved to hold her up, which, in retrospect, seemed a little less than worthless. But who was he to question the protective instinct. His next bullet had passed through the man's shoulder, causing him to slump against his wife, slowly making that downward descent to the floor. He had heard their heavy, shudders of breath, but was somehow graced without screams.

Grateful for small favors.

He heard the vindictive prodding behind him, telling him that he was nothing short of a young incompetent, and to finish the job quickly. His hands still shook, and he could smell the residue that would undoubtedly stay on his hands for quite some time.

His next bullet passed through the man's back, undoubtedly fatal but no less slow and painful. He was now slowly sprawled against his wife, as if still attempting to deflect whatever he could throw at them in a sad, sedated manner.

God.

God God God. The God he did not believe in. The God that would viciously cut down two young doctors in their prime, clutching the blood-splattered frame of a young, cheerful blond girl.

The next two bullets went through chest and head, finally cutting short whatever inner revelation he might have had.

He changed his mind. When he looked at her now, he saw the father that had thrown himself in the vain attempt to protect his precious loved one. He saw a young girl who had suffered and loved and worked and strived for her childhood surrogate brothers. They were the ones that propelled her. He had no doubt that she would have given herself over to a bullet to protect them.

He hears her gentle pleading. He is conscious of that defeat, that tired, defenseless struggle of protest.

"Stop! Please, just stop." Even this seems to affect Fullmetal, who murmurs her name like he had forgotten she was there.

He felt the words spill from his lips… a perfect stream of consciousness that defied reason or contemplation. Even as he was perfectly aware of the fact that he now had an attentive and somewhat abashed audience at his disposal, this did nothing but prompt him to raise his voice so that it may be heard throughout. Even if the words were really meant for a small minority.

"I once executed two people. Two doctors. 'There are no sides just patients.' That's what they said as they treated our fallen enemies in Ishbal. But the people they were healing would just rise up again to fight us. The military asked them to stop, but they wouldn't, and their make-shift hospital was becoming a den for insurgents. I got my orders in the morning and I shot them that night. Afterwards, I tried to kill myself, but I was too much of a coward. So I took an oath instead: To never follow unreasonable commands again. To reach a position where I wouldn't have to follow them. And I've stayed true to that. I'm not chasing you because I was commanded to. I'm doing it because I'm pissed. Now why the hell did you two run away without asking for my help first!"

Whatever it was that they were expecting, it certainly hadn't been that.


	2. Chapter 2

He still wondered how the hell it happened.

When he traced the faint outline of her hipbone, or lowered himself gently to taste the light trail of her navel, he couldn't honestly trace back the path that had led him here.

She was light and full in his arms, her brittle, feeble nails clutching his back with a pronounced urgency; one that matched his own vigor and somewhat reckless inclinations.

He still didn't know how to phrase it. Something about their encounters made it frenzied and rushed. Something that bordered on intuition and biological necessity, that whispered **hurry**. That called to the sense of the fleeting and brief.

For this could only last so long.

Her little caliced hands now clutched his shoulder blades, applying pressure for him in no uncertain terms. Apparently, this was one of the frenzied and relentlessly rough times. Some were reserved for the quiet, muffled occasions that might be called tender, though they were no less rushed.

Fear of discovery had dissipated long ago. Whether it was from arrogance or simple indifference had yet to be determined.

He liked to prop her hips up with his hands. He liked tracing the freckles that aligned her collarbone like tiny intricate constellations. He liked spreading that impractically long hair of hers, and letting it spread out around her body like an idealized odalisque of a Flemish painter.

"An odalisque is a prostitute," she pointed out with a wry grin.

He hadn't known how to respond to that. Hell, he hadn't known he had said these things out loud.

They both had their own preferences regarding the eyepatch. She said that she preferred looking at his battle scars, tracing the uneven skin with sweaty fingers. He himself maintained the cover for several reasons, most of which boiled down to the fact that he thought he looked rather dashing with it. And **not**, as Havoc had mentioned, like a deranged and lecherous pirate.


End file.
